


the heat inside your hidden heart

by warsfeil



Category: Natsume Yuujinchou | Natsume's Book of Friends
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 13:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10413357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warsfeil/pseuds/warsfeil
Summary: Natsume joins the Matoba clan. It goes about the way you'd expect.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [moffit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/moffit/gifts).



There is a bird somewhere outside the window, and the song it sings is too irregular to use as a way to mark the passage of time, but Natsume listens anyway. He listens because it's easy to incline his head, to tilt his ear towards the sweet sound and listen. It's much easier than focusing on the other sensory input available: the smell of old cloth and brewing tea, the metallic clink of a kettle being placed back on the stove, the sound of socked feet meeting tatami.

"Do you need anything?"

"No," Natsume says, but it takes him a long second to look away from the garden, to drag his attention from the bird outside back onto the man that sits across the kotatsu. He takes his teacup, automatically, but he doesn't drink. He doesn't really want to be having this conversation. He doesn't really want to be here.

"I'm surprised you're here alone." Matoba's voice is pleasant and conversational. It's easy to listen to the sounds each syllable makes, to concentrate on each one individually instead of their sum. 

"I meant to come alone." Natsume left Nyanko-sensei behind on purpose, left him at the sake spring in the mountains -- Natsume is a good liar, when he has to be, too used to making sure that his emotions don't show on his face. It's easy, when you keep telling yourself over and over that you're unwanted, that you're a burden, that this is for the best. He's sure that Nyanko-sensei won't be distracted forever, and that's fine. By the time he wakes up, it'll be too late. 

Matoba takes a sip of his tea, as calm as anything, and Natsume curls his hand around his own cup. It's spring, but it's still cold outside. The warmth of the kotatsu isn't enough to break through the chill in Natsume's limbs, but then, he didn't really expect that it would. 

"I've decided to join the Matoba clan." 

Matoba's expression doesn't change, serene and understanding. If Natsume didn't know him, he might think that he was kind. If Matoba is surprised by his words, he doesn't show it. Natsume imagines that Matoba has known why he was here since he first called.

"What finally convinced you?"

"Don't you already know?" Natsume's voice is harsh. He doesn't want to discuss this. He doesn't to relive it. Once was enough. He could barely manage the most vague of explanations when he woke up in the hospital, when Tanuma and Taki were there. It wasn't a good enough explanation for either of them, but they were too polite to push. 

He’d kept the omamori that Taki had left him, boxed it up with the rest of his belongings, filed it away at the bottom with the picture of his parents and everything else too painful to look at.

"I'd like to hear it from you," Matoba says, and the tone of his voice is gentle, like he's coaxing a kitten out from underneath a piece of furniture. Natsume knows it isn't a request. 

He's too tired to fight it.

He grips the teacup with his good hand, stares down into the liquid like it might give him a better solution to his life than the one he's already decided on. 

"A youkai attacked where I was living," Natsume explains, finally. His voice is mechanical and brittle, and he does his best to keep any emotion out of his tone. He doesn't know how well he does. "The family that I was staying with was hurt."

"So were you," Matoba observes, eye glancing down to the sling around Natsume's right arm, to the long line of bandages that ensconce most of his torso, visible above the collar of his shirt.

"I'm tired of putting everyone in danger." 

"How badly were they hurt?"

Natsume doesn't answer that immediately, either. It takes him a second, takes him a moment to gather his emotions and to discard them as forcefully as he can manage, to make sure that when he blinks there are no tears in his eyes. He wraps himself in his own guilt until he's numb, and tells himself that this is necessary.

"A heart attack. A broken ankle."

"I see," Matoba says, and he takes a sip of his tea, completely unphased. "And your guardian cat?"

"They created a diversion. He wasn't home." 

Natsume thinks that even Nyanko-sensei feels guilt over it -- if not for the Fujiwaras, then for Natsume. He'd been uncharacteristically quiet the entire time that Natsume was in the hospital, a silent guard at the window who barely even complained about the lack of food.

Matoba finishes his tea, sets the cup down and doesn't pour another. The smile on his face hasn't changed, doesn't change as he looks at Natsume, steady and impassive. He stands, slowly, stepping around the kotatsu to look down at Natsume. He's a formidable figure, and Natsume feels helpless. 

"I won't allow you to back out if you regret your decision."

"I won't regret it." Natsume _will_ , he knows he will, he regrets it even as he says it. 

"You won't," Matoba replies: an assurance, a comfort. He reaches out and slides his fingers under Natsume's chin, pulls up until Natsume is focused entirely on Matoba's face. Desperately, Natsume tries to hear the bird song, but there's only silence. "I won't allow you to."

Natsume opens his mouth, but he can't make sound come out, throat as silent as the bird outside. 

"I'll place protections around their home, in case anything goes looking for you there," Matoba says, his voice an easy reassurance. There's nothing else for Natsume to focus on but the sound of it, the words he says, the warm fingers on his chin. "I'll teach you how to handle your own power."

Natsume doesn't care about his power. He doesn't care about any of that, except keeping people safe. He doesn't ever want to hear that note of fear in Touko's voice again, when something she couldn't hear was roaring loud enough to shatter every window in the house, when her husband was being held down by a paw neither of them could see.

"They'll all be safe," Matoba reassures him, and Natsume wants so badly to believe him. He closes his eyes, Matoba's voice and fingers like bright pinpricks of light in the sudden darkness.

"If they aren't, I'll leave," Natsume threatens, but it's an empty threat: he knows that he's already come too far to go back. He's already told everyone that he was leaving. Touko had barely replied to him, and her disappointment felt worse than anything else. Natsume had left the house to distract the youkai, to lead it away -- to her, it must have looked like he was simply leaving when she needed him the most. 

"I won't allow you to," Matoba repeats again.

"You can't stop me."

Matoba's fingers slide down Natsume's neck until his thumb is pressing against the hollow of Natsume's throat, a steady pressure that makes Natsume's breath come quicker. 

"You don't understand. I don't need to stop you," Matoba says, tenderly, like he's explaining something delicate to a small child. "You won't have a reason to leave. Those that you care about will be safe, and you'll be safe, and all the things that you find so distasteful about the Matoba will slowly become less and less important to you. You won't have to do anything you find abhorrent. It's going to be much easier than you think."

Natsume knows not to trust Matoba. Natsume wants to trust Matoba. He's been so cold since the youkai attacked, a deep chill that settled in his bones and left him shivering in the hospital. It's so easy to lean into Matoba's touch, the hand at his throat warmer than anything else he's found.

It feels like hope, but Natsume isn't sure he believes in hope, anymore. He opens his mouth, but the thumb at his throat is just strong enough to make speaking uncomfortable, and he closes it again.

"Say that you want to join me," Matoba orders in that tone that sounds so pleasant. It isn't even a question. He leaves Natsume no room for escape. The pressure at Natsume's throat vanishes, moves further down to stroke heat across the bandages. He can feel it even through the gauze.

"I want to join you," Natsume says, and there's power in those words. He can feel it. He can't control it, doesn't know the first thing about it, doesn't know when Matoba might have started to cast a spell or how much of himself he's binding into it just by speaking. "I want to join the Matoba."

There's the dizzying light of power, and Natsume feels something solid wrap around him, sink into his skin like he's made of water and settle, almost painfully hot, around his heart. Matoba is still looking at him, watching as Natsume lets out a startled gasp and sinks further down until he’s barely upright, pressing a hand over his chest. He's certain that whatever Matoba just did is, at the very least, unethical -- Natori is going to kill him, Nyanko-sensei is going to kill him -- but it doesn't matter, not if it'll keep everyone safe. He can be bound to Matoba, he can be bound to the family, he can be a servant in a way that he's almost positive humans aren't meant to be to other humans, not like youkai are -- he doesn't care. 

It's fine. 

"It's warm," Natsume says, because he's still so startled by the feeling he doesn't think to stop himself. Matoba's hand is over his, suddenly, pushing him backwards across the cushions on the floor. There's heat from inside Natsume's chest and heat from Matoba's hand and Natsume feels hopelessly trapped between them, eyes wide as Matoba moves over him, looks down at him with a dark eye.

"I can make you warmer." Matoba's voice is heavy when it falls over him; something has _changed_ between them, and Natsume is too inexperienced to know what. His breath is coming faster, from the adrenaline rush of feeling Matoba's power wrap around him and from the domineering sight of Matoba over him.

"I," Natsume starts, because he doesn't know what to say. He's counting on his mind to supply him with something else, and it doesn't, it's blanking in favor of taking in all the sensory input it can manage, mulling it over back and forth to make sense of it. Matoba's robes are falling like a dark curtain around Natsume, he’s leaning in closer, and when Matoba's lips press against Natsume's, he can hear the bird singing again.

Matoba's hand is back, pressing heat against Natsume's ribs even through the fabric of his shirt, and Natsume marvels at the way Matoba is skilled enough to kiss him and keep the seal over his eye from getting in the way. It's a soft crinkle in the background, mixing with the birdsong and the rustle of old silk. Matoba's lips are hot against his, and the heat is almost unbearable, Natsume wants to open his mouth to try and breathe better -- but it only lets Matoba's tongue inside, only makes the heat hotter.

Natsume reaches out with his uninjured hand, tries to press it against Matoba's chest. He isn't sure if he wants to pull him closer or push him further away, but the decision turns out to be completely unnecessary when Matoba's hand slides up, the sensation of fingers on Natsume's bare wrist seeming more intimate than Natsume was prepared for. Matoba takes hold of Natsume's wrist, brings it up and pins it down to the tatami above Natsume's head, leaves Natsume spread out and unguarded. 

Matoba draws back, eye half-lidded as he looks down at Natsume, and it's suddenly so cold without his presence that Natsume shivers. There's not much he can do, pinned down like this with Matoba over him, one leg resting easily on either side of Natsume's hips. His other arm is still broken in the sling, and there's still no sign of Nyanko-sensei -- and what could he do now, anyway, when Natsume has so clearly signed himself over to Matoba, has let Matoba write his name all over Natsume's soul? 

"Why?" is all Natsume can think to ask, a stand-in for the dozen and a half questions flooding through his mind before he can even get a grip on them individually.

"Because," Matoba says, a darkly possessive tone in his voice as he lets his other hand wander down to Natsume's throat, trace down to press hard over his heart. "Now, you're mine."

Natsume can't think to complain against it when Matoba leans in to kiss him again; Matoba's lips are hot, but Natsume's whole body is heating up to the point where he barely even notices, can barely do anything to try and resist. If he's honest, he doesn't want to resist -- Matoba's declaration of ownership has left a searing heat through Natsume's veins, settling in his stomach. 

It's undoing all the coldness that set in when he woke up in the hospital, and it feels almost like a betrayal. 

He kisses back.

Matoba's kiss is hungrier, this time; Natsume almost feels like he's being devoured, piece by piece, like Matoba is a starving youkai and this is how he's graining Natsume's power. Even if it was, Natsume wouldn't stop him now, not when he's finally warm, when every bit of skin that Matoba touches feels like it's being electrified. Natsume's lips are already swollen, and if he didn't know a thing about kissing before, he's learning now, learning rapidly. Not quickly enough to keep up, though, a point Matoba drives across to him when he tilts his kisses down, angles them across the line of Natsume's jaw and down to his neck. Natsume drags in a startled gasp when Matoba bites at his neck, above the line of the bandages, the blossom of pain slowly nullified when Matoba licks at it, sucks gently enough that it's a teasing feeling, a wet noise that sounds lewd in Natsume's ears.

"Matoba--"

"Seiji," Matoba says, pulling his lips away from Natsume's reddened skin without moving his head. His hair is a dark, ticklish sensation against Natsume's exposed skin. "We're both Matoba, now."

Natsume considers protesting -- he's still Natsume, he'll always be Natsume, his name is one of the few things that he can claim as his own -- but his mind is a scratched record, starting over again each time at the implied intimacy of Matoba's first name. 

"Seiji--"

But Natsume doesn't know what he was trying to say in the first place. A plea to stop, maybe, but maybe this falls into the same lines as joining the clan. Matoba said that he wouldn't let Natsume back out, but that Natsume wouldn't regret it, either. It's too easy to believe him, it's too easy to let Natsume's vision focus in entirely on Matoba to the exclusion of everything else, blocking out the erratic birdsong in favor of just feeling Matoba's hands on him, how swollen his lips are, how hard his cock already is--

The situation only worsens when Matoba's hands both slip down to start steadily removing the sling housing Natsume’s arm. He’s gentle, more than Natsume would have expected and more than Natsume thinks he deserves when he pushes the sling aside to start working on the buttons of Natsume’s shirt. Natsume's hand twitches, the idea of trying to stop Matoba fleeting through his consciousness, but the urge dies when Matoba looks at him, the look in Matoba's eye like that of a predator. 

"Don't move," Matoba says, and Natsume doesn't. He leaves his wrist right where it is, stretched awkwardly above his head, and tries to steady his breathing as his chest quakes under Matoba's hands. Matoba doesn't bother taking the shirt off, and Natsume is grateful, because the sling is more complicated than he'd like, in this specific moment. Matoba seems to know it without Natsume even voicing the opinion, brushing his fingers across the cast, across the bruised flesh that peeks out from the top, and Natsume lets out a soft groan of displeasure at the sensation. 

It feels like Matoba is steadily removing every bit of Natsume that the youkai touched, sliding away all the parts that were tainted and frozen and replacing it with the fire that Natsume never imagined was lurking inside Matoba. Natsume is out of his depth in this, because he's never imagined any of this - not running to Matoba, not joining the clan, not so easily finding himself under Matoba without the urge to leave. 

Natsume wants to feel safe, and he never thought he'd feel that way, with Matoba.

"Shh," Matoba says, dragging his fingers down Natsume's exposed chest. There's bandages covering a good portion of it, the faint stain of blood across his chest where he'd been clawed, the multicolored bruising shining through where his ribs are slowly knitting themselves back together. Matoba presses gently on the bruising, looking almost delighted when Natsume lets out a pained noise, arches up into it despite himself. 

If pain is what it takes to keep everyone safe, Natsume will gladly accept it, especially when the pain is accompanied by warmth, a burst of pleasure that Natsume can't begin to unravel.

"Stop thinking," Matoba instructs him, and Natsume squeezes his eyes closed, does his best to obey. He shouldn't be obeying Matoba so easily, without hesitation, but he is. He doesn't think he can stop. 

He'll hate himself later, maybe. He's no longer sure he'll regret it.

"Please," Natsume says, his good hand jerking again as he starts to lift it only to drop it back down to the tatami again. "Please--"

Truthfully, he isn't sure what he's asking for, but it doesn't seem to matter. Matoba seems to know, because when he leans back down, presses his lips to the bandages over Natsume's heart, it feels like exactly what Natsume didn't know how to ask for. Matoba drags his lips down, drags his teeth down like a threat, skipping over all the obstacles of Natsume’s arm and the bandages on his body until he meets the edge of Natsume's pants, long hair slipping across Natsume's exposed skin.

Matoba looks at the bulge in Natsume's jeans and Natsume flushes, automatically, turning his head to the side. He moves his hand, finally, flings his arm across his face in an attempt to block Matoba from view, or maybe to stop Matoba from viewing _him_.

"Stop--"

Of course, Matoba doesn't stop. He just surges up like a wave spilling across Natsume, dragging his arm back off of his face and pinning it down again. Natsume is at a disadvantage, one arm to Matoba's two, inexperience in the face of someone older and clearly more well-learned, and Natsume feels like even his token resistance is useless. 

"I won't," Matoba says, simply, and then: "You don't want me to."

"I--" Natsume starts to object, but then Matoba's other hand is going down, his palm pressing against the heat of Natsume's cock, and it's all Natsume can do to try not to cry out so loudly that he can be heard through every wall in the area. Matoba leaves his hand there, a steady pressure, unmoving, and Natsume tries to squirm against it. He wants more, he wants friction and pressure and all the heat that Matoba can give him, but Matoba is stronger than he is, and it's easy for Matoba to reach down and hold Natsume's hips in place.

"Tell me that you don't want me to stop."

Natsume doesn't object to this any more than he’d objected to the order to say that he wanted to join the Matoba. It's easy to repeat what Matoba tells him to, it's easy to follow the direction when it lines up so easily with what Natsume wants. What he shouldn't want, but does. 

"I don't want you to stop," Natsume says, and his voice doesn't waver. 

The kiss is a reward, when it happens, Natsume knows that much. He lets himself sink back into it, but the feeling of his cock trapped against his pants is a distraction, and when his hips start moving again, minute shifts as he tries to gain more sensation, Matoba laughs against his lips, dark and assured and easy.

Matoba's other hand moves down to join the first, but not to press against Natsume's cock, this time, they go for the button of his jeans, popping it loose and dragging the fabric down his hips. It hurts to lift his hips enough to get them off, to put all the weight on his bruised ribs for a second, but Natsume does it, moves his body and strips the jeans off his legs with the single-minded efficiency born of arousal. His underwear goes with them, and it isn't until they're off and he has nothing to focus on that he realizes he's naked from the waist down, hot and aroused in front of Matoba, the flush as visible in his cock as it is in his cheeks.

"Don't look," Natsume blurts, tries not to think about the situation. Matoba had told him to stop thinking, but it's a hard command to follow when there's still so much to think about. Nyanko-sensei could come back at any time, someone from the clan could come in to check on them, what is Natori going to say when he finds out, what is--

"I told you to stop thinking so much," Matoba replies instead, punctuates the end of his sentence by wrapping his fingers around Natsume's cock and tugging. Natsume arches up off the cushion, and if his back protests the movement, he can't even tell, because it feels so good that he can't think about anything else, which was probably Matoba's exact intention.

"Ma-- Seiji--" Natsume starts, corrects himself, finishes. 

Matoba's hand on his cock moves at a leisurely pace, something that feels like it's meant to be teasing but is still so heart-stoppingly good that Natsume can't think about anything else. Matoba's thumb smears itself across the head of Natsume's cock, fingers already sticky with precum, and Natsume would be embarrassed if he wasn't already so overwhelmed. 

"Please," Natsume pleads, high-pitched and keening.

"Please _what_?"

"Let me-- let me touch you, too--" 

Matoba moves up and Natsume doesn't wait for permission, he just raises his hand, reaches up and tangles his fingers into Matoba's hair. It's even softer than he had imagined. It takes the barest bit of pressure to undo the hair tie, to let the hair spill messily over Matoba's shoulders. It makes Matoba look even more otherworldly than usual; it makes him like like he's a youkai himself, with the ward over his eye and the weight of traditional clothing on his body.

"Do you want more?"

The words are barely out of Matoba's mouth before Natsume gasps _yes_ , because if Matoba wants him to stop thinking, then that's exactly what he should do. Every time Matoba's hand shifts on Natsume's cock, his mind blanks out and he doesn't think about anything except the touch. He wants more. He wants to stop thinking. 

Matoba really is making everything so easy. 

Matoba's hand leaves Natsume's cock, and Natsume can't help but whine in protest. It's embarrassing to be this needy when everything that he is is so carefully calculated to not be a burden on anyone, to not make anything harder for anyone -- but this is what Matoba is doing to him. This must be what Matoba wants, and as much as Natsume would like to protest, he can't bring himself to think about anything except the heat in his body, the pleasure curling through his stomach.

Natsume lifts his leg obediently when Matoba starts to move it, and Matoba laughs again, a soft sound that sounds so loud in Natsume's ears, blocking out anything else that he could possibly hear. Matoba trails kisses from Natsume's thigh all the way down to his knee, little red marks that feel almost more embarrassing than Natsume's obvious arousal. Then Matoba moves right back up, a bite over every place he’d laid a kiss, each one hard and quick and leaving Natsume to jerk helplessly with each one.

"It hurts--"

"Good."

Natsume's fingers scrabble against the tatami, trying to get away from the pain but unwilling to actually move. He's so preoccupied with it that he loses track of what Matoba is doing for a split second, and it turns out to be long enough for Matoba to tilt Natsume's hips up, lean down, and lick a long stripe across the line of Natsume's ass.

" _Stop_ \--" Natsume wails, because it feels wrong, oversensitive flesh that has never been exposed to anyone else before. He thinks there might be tears in the corners of his eyes from the sheer overload, the sheer sensation of feeling. He's never felt so thoroughly undone before in his life, never felt so helpless; he's nothing more than a ship lost at sea, and Matoba is the relentless pounding of waves crashing down on him.

Matoba doesn't even bother to correct him, this time, he just leans in again, tongue slipping across Natsume's hole. Natsume jerks away, lets out another keening noise, presses his nails against the tatami and tries not to think about what Matoba must look like right now, pressed against Natsume's ass. 

It only takes a second for Matoba to pull away, and Natsume isn't sure if he's grateful or not. He doesn't have time to decide, because in the next moment, Matoba's hand is moving down to replace his tongue, a finger slipping inside of Natsume and making him jerk. This time, his protest is wordless and incoherent, just noise layered on top of sensation. His objections aren't worth anything, here, now, and it feels pointless to even try. He's already agreed to be Matoba's, and even if that's all this is, it's overloading every nerve in Natsume's body.

A second finger rapidly joins the first, and Natsume practically mewls at the feeling, the stretch already feeling unbearable. He twists, trying to get away from the feeling, and Matoba presses Natsume's hips down, keeps him in place as he fingers him open. There’s something sticky on Matoba’s fingers, inside of Natsume, and Natsume doesn’t know when Matoba coated his fingers in the substance, but it makes it easy for Matoba to press his fingers in and fuck Natsume open in slick, easy movements that throb straight down to Natsume’s cock.

"Please," Natsume begs, and he still isn't sure what it is he's begging for, why all he can say is the same thing over and over again. " _Please_ \--"

Matoba kisses away the pleas until they're just muffled noises, Natsume jerking helplessly against Matoba's vice-grip, against the feeling of his fingers inside of him. He doesn't know what he wants -- more, less, everything, nothing. He wants to be back at the Fujiwara house listening to Nyanko-sensei snore with the knowledge that everything is fine, that no one has been hurt because of him, that he hasn't let anyone down, that he was finally enough-- 

Natsume squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a noise that's muffled against Matoba's lips. Matoba's fingers withdraw, and Natsume doesn't open his eyes even when Matoba pulls back. His hand is still on Natsume's hip, holding him in place, and Natsume tries desperately not to think about anything at all.

It's a task made much easier when he realizes why it is Matoba withdrew, when he feels the head of Matoba's cock pressing against his ass, and there's barely time enough for Natsume to register that it's happening before Matoba is pushing in. It's one slick movement, and the stretch and the burn of it are combining into something that's as unique as it is oppressive. Natsume can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heart in his ears, he can't feel anything but exactly what Matoba ( _Seiji_ , his mind manages to supply) wants him to. 

Matoba Seiji stops moving. He's buried inside of Natsume and Natsume can't think about anything but the feeling, thick and hot. It's the closest he's ever come to feeling impaled, and his breath stutters in his chest as he grasps at the tatami, at anything he can get ahold of. The hand that's still splayed across his chest flexes enough that his wrist and his arm ache in protest, but he can't focus on any lesser sensation of pain when _Matoba Seiji's dick_ is inside of him.

Seiji leans down to lick a warm stripe like a supernova against Natsume's neck. It doesn't help Natsume's breathing regulate any; he breaks on every exhalation, fails at holding himself together. He reaches up almost blindly, grabs onto Seiji's clothing where it's loose around his shoulders. The fabric slips underneath his grip, and he just adjusts his fingers over and over again until he meets skin, the warm edge of Seiji's shoulder.

"Move," Natsume says, and it's as much a beg as it is a command. He's a Matoba now -- isn't that right? It might not be correct to order the head of the family around, to demand to be fucked senseless, to pretend like he has any control over the situation, but Seiji told him not to think, and Natsume is going to do his best to follow that order right now.

Thinking is the last thing he wants to do right now. 

Seiji only laughs, a breath of amusement still at the bandages on Natsume's throat, and moves. 

If Natsume _were_ thinking, he'd think about how loud the sound he makes must be in Seiji's ears. He would think about the sight that he must make, because Seiji's gaze is a physical weight on him, as dark and caressing as the man's voice. He would think about the repercussions of what he's doing right now, of giving himself to Seiji and then promptly letting Seiji take everything that's left.

He isn't thinking, though, because the snap of Seiji's hips is a lazy pace. Natsume isn't experienced enough with anything besides his own hand to know how good it is, he only knows what his body is telling him, that he's harder than he's ever been before in his entire life. He shifts back against Seiji with every thrust, the motion makeing pain spike up through his ribs and he doesn't care in the slightest. He can't care in the slightest. 

Natsume is trapped, physically, between Seiji's body and the tatami, but he's trapped in this moment, too, wrung out and helpless for as long as Seiji wants. 

Is he begging? It's hard to tell, it's hard to focus on anything. He thinks he's saying something. Words, or just endless vowel sounds; repetitions of pleas and he can't tell what he’s even trying to communicate. There's something wet under his fingernails and he realizes dully that he's managed to break the skin on Seiji's shoulder, and there's something satisfying about that, too, that they're both going to come out of this encounter marked and scarred and somehow indelibly changed.

"Takashi," Seiji says, and the name brings Natsume too close back to reality. He doesn't want to think about his name being used, he doesn't want to think.

"Shut up--" 

Then Seiji is touching him again, a hand moving down to wrap around Natsume's cock at the same time that the pace goes from lazy to rapid, and all of Natsume's attempts at rudeness or coherency fly out of the window. Natsume's mouth forms a syllable for Seiji's name and drops it before it can get all the way out; he's barely able to breathe. He feels more like he's dying now than he did when he was being attacked by the youkai. If death felt like this, he might not have protested it so much. 

When he comes, all he can hear is white noise in his ears, the vague echo of his own yell refracted back at him. He can't see anything for a long moment, and it takes him awhile to realize it's because his eyes are still closed. His skin is still tingling, and he isn't sure when Seiji ( _Matoba_ , he viciously corrects himself, burning through the haze of the afterglow) came, but the proof is in the stickiness between his thighs. 

Matoba's lips are on his, and Natsume is too tired to do anything but kiss back. All the pain in his body is secondary, now; it feels like the energy expended in chasing after his own orgasm has managed to be both a painkiller and a sleep aid.

"Are you warmer now?" Matoba asks, and it takes Natsume's mind a moment to catch up. It's like thinking through gauze; it's like everything has a few seconds delay.

"Yes," Natsume says, finally, and he's surprised by how strong his voice still sounds. Stronger than when he was talking to Taki, certainly. 

Matoba shifts up, effortlessly; it's easier for him to shrug the layers of his wrinkled robes back on than it is for Natsume to button his shirt back up. Natsume only has one hand to work with, even if the pain when he struggles to sit is dulled around the edges. He grabs for the sling but doesn’t try to immediately put it back on, holds his bad arm with his good for a long second. Matoba offers him a hand, and Natsume looks at it for a long moment before raising his gaze to meet Matoba's eye.

"You'll need a bath, after that." Matoba's voice is as gentle as ever. There's an undercurrent in it, a cat that's successfully trapped an elusive bird and ended its days of singing, and it makes Natsume's stomach twist, makes his chest ache. “And some help, from the looks of things.”

He looks at the window for a long moment. There is no bird song; there isn't even the familiar sound of a cat's footsteps. He can hear his own breathing, the rustle of cloth when Matoba moves. He still doesn't know how long it's been that he's been in the room -- long enough for him to become Matoba's, but short enough that no one else has caught on. 

Natsume reaches up and takes Matoba's hand to pull him back down.

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas four months late, moff! i watched all of natsume for you and it destroyed my life, please give me a refund.


End file.
